Unexpected
by Soledad
Summary: Fíli and Kíli make an unexpected friend while visiting Elrond's house. Meanwhile, Erestor also finds himself in an unexpected situation. A side story to "Innocence", with all the Elf/Elf stuff it entails. 6 rather short chapters. Please read the warnings before Part 2!
1. Part 1: The Arrival

**Unexpected**

_**by Soledad**_

**Title:** Unexpected

**Author:** Soledad

**Fandom:** "The Hobbit" by JRR Tolkien

**Genre:** Friendship, Romance

**Rating:** Adult. Definitely.

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

**Summary: **Fíli and Kíli make an unexpected friend while visiting Elrond's house. Meanwhile, Erestor also finds himself in an unexpected situation. A side story to "Innocence", with all the Elf/Elf stuff it entails.

* * *

**Introduction**

This story was originally meant to make up three interconnected chapters of my never-ending Lindir story, _Innocence_, which also can be found on . That story ran into a massive block some years ago, but this part was already written. Since I have no idea when I would get with the main story far enough to insert this part – if ever – and since it can be considered as a fic for "The Hobbit", I decided to rework it to a certain extent and post it as an independent story.

Reading "Innocence" is not required, but it would make a lot easier to understand the background of some characters appearing here. This is a **strictly bookverse fic**, based on my own head canon, in which Lindir is a foundling, raised by Radagast the Brown, and has been Erestor's spouse for centuries by the time this story takes place.

These are the same events described in "The Hobbit": Bilbo, Gandalf and the Dwarves visit Imladris on their way to Erebor. The idea that Lindir is the one who greets them at the bridge (having the young boy Estel in his care) is mine alone. None of the individual Imladris Elves were ever discussed in "The Hobbit", so I had a certain poetic licence in this matter. Of course, the merry song as well as certain lines of dialogue are taken from the book itself.

* * *

**Part 01: The Arrival**

**[Imladris, on the 15****th**** day of lairë in the year 2941 of the Third Age]**(1)

It was early morning when Erestor awoke – and a beautiful morning at that, the warm, golden beams of Anor falling directly upon his face through the open balcony windows. And though he knew well what few people knew – how the mild climate of the Valley was provided – he still could not cease wondering about it.

As centuries went by, Elrond grew stronger and more skilled with the wielding of earth magic (inherited from the foremother of his line, Melian the Maia herself) and the Ring of Air, and he succeeded with his subtle adjustments made to the weather almost without exceptions. And since Arwen Undómiel had reached her maturity and grew to the living likeness of Lúthien not in beauty only but in power as well, the weather had been mild and even all the time – reasonably cold in the fading and winter seasons, not all too hot during summer, and marvellous in stirring, spring and autumn. Even among Elven realms, Imladris remained unique… for Erestor, born and grown up in stone cities, far surpassing even the dreamy woods of Lothlórien.

He yawned, stretched in his usual, subdued manner and got out of bed, wrapping himself into a simple woollen robe against the slight chill of the fair morning. Lindir was long gone, of course, having left an hour ago or more to greet the sunrise as was his wont from early childhood on. But Erestor could hear the faint, sweet tones of his flute from the adjoining chambers that he had occupied before their wedding.

The young minstrel kept the wide, airy room that used to serve as his study and bedchamber, all in one, in his youth – for practicing his music and for the rare times when he needed some privacy, apart even from his beloved spouse. After all those years in Imladris (including eleven centuries spent in happy matrimony), he still was a shy, child-like creature, and keeping this last refuge gave him a feeling of safety.

Choosing the shortest way, Erestor stepped onto the balcony that connected their rooms and walked over to the study of his spouse. He found Lindir in the middle of the sunlit chamber, sitting with crossed legs on a flat pillow, eyes shut, long fingers dancing vigorously upon the slender silver flute.

Once again, Erestor could not help but admire that wondrous instrument, crafted in the Blessed Realm – in Lord Aulë's smithy, no less – and given to Lindir by the wizard Aiwendil. There was only one matching flute in the whole Middle-earth, and it belonged to Thranduil, the Elvenking of Eryn Galen, called Mirkwood in these dark days. Thingol himself brought that flute from his first and only visit in Aman, and he gave it his grand-nephew when Thranduil's musical talent showed – at least so Legolas, the King's son said, and why would he lie?

In his childhood years, while fostered by Aiwendil, Lindir occasionally came to visit the Greenwood, and Thranduil sometimes played with him, teaching him the wilder, more exotic melodies of the Wood-Elves and the Avari – and right now Lindir was playing one of those woodland songs, wild and sweet and full of longing at the same time.

Erestor shook his head with a smile. Despite all that Vanyarin and Telerin blood in his veins, Lindir still was a Wood-Elf in the heart of his hearts, more comfortable with the birds and the beasts than with other Elves (not to mention mortals), and even talking to the trees every now and then. Of course, what else could one expect from someone who spent his childhood years with Aiwendil, Iarwain and the River-Daughter? And yet he would not want Lindir to be any different.

For a while he remained on the balcony, admiring the exquisite beauty of his young spouse through the open window. In the pale golden light of the morning sun Lindir looked even more delicate than usual – fragile, sweet and oh so vulnerable, and Erestor's heart was so full of love for him that he feared it would burst.

After all those centuries, he still could not understand how this gifted and beautiful youngling (and one of noble birth, at that) could have chosen _him_ to share his life and his soul with. Elven lords and ladies of princely Houses or even the Maiar themselves would have succumbed to his beauty, had he chosen to sail to the West. And yet he chose to remain in Middle-earth, and he chose Erestor, an orphan of common birth and moderate wisdom, not even a warrior anymore.

Erestor still failed to understand what Lindir saw in him, but he ceased to ask any longer. He accepted his good fortune with gratitude and tried to make his spouse as happy as it was within his powers.

It seemed that Lindir felt his presence – as always – for he stopped playing, set his flute aside and rose gracefully to welcome him.

"Good morning, _melme_," he smiled, giving Erestor a chaste kiss on the mouth. "Have you slept well? You tossed a lot during the night again."

"I had weird dreams," Erestor admitted, rubbing his temples absent-mindedly, "but that was to be expected. We shall be having a crescent Moon tonight."

For ever since he had been mauled by those werewolves in the Last Battle upon Dagorlad, he kept having nightmares, or strange dreams at the very least, whenever Ithil entered this particular phase. Only during the yearly anniversaries of that battle was it even worse.

"You were up early, once again," he added, changing the topic, as there was absolutely nothing he could have done against the dreams, "Have you, by chance, taken a look at today's schedule already?"

Lindir nodded. "Mithrandir should arrive by sunset, or so the birds say. They came at sunrise to announce his coming. Other than that, nothing unusual for today."

"Mithrandir?" Erestor repeated in surprise. "He has not been here since the last meeting of the White Council! What dire news might follow him _this_ time, I wonder?"

For the Grey Pilgrim was a rare visitor indeed, coming only at times of great peril or dire need, unless the Council meeting had been summoned to Imladris.

"I know not," Lindir replied, "but the birds say he has a whole company of _Naugrim_(2) with him. Now, why would he want to bring such ridiculous creatures to Imladris?"

"Lindir," Erestor warned him sternly, "mind you manners! The Dwarves are a proud people and quick to anger, so be careful around them."

"Proud of their beards that are longer than themselves?" laughed Lindir, with tears of mirth in his eyes. "Let us hope they shall not get caught in all that bramble and fell onto their own axes while stumbling down the rocky path that leads to our Valley."

Erestor shook his head in exasperation. Being an Elf from Eregion, he had much more respect for Dwarves and their craft than Elves usually did, and knew all too well how easy it was to raise their ire. He did not want for Lindir to get hurt for a light-hearted comment that could be misunderstood.

"I see it will be better when _I do_ welcome them, or else you might get into trouble again," he said. "Do we know how many of them will come with Mithrandir?"

"Thirteen of the _Naugrim_," replied Lindir, "and an even smaller creature called a _h__obbit_. Is that not the little folk, the _Periannath_, whose land lies beyond the Old Forest and the River Baranduin? I never saw one of them myself."

"Nor did I," said Erestor, "but the Rangers who watch their borders often tell amusing stories about them. Apparently, they have a healthy appetite, worth of that of two grown Men."

"In that case we should tell the cooks to prepare a huge supper for tonight," laughed Lindir. "Feeding thirteen _Naugrim_ and a _Perian_ must be quite the task."

"It is," agreed Erestor, "though I cannot understand what would inspire a Hobbit to make such a journey. They usually leave their small land only in dire need. Unless…"

"Unless…?" prompted Lindir, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Unless Mithrandir has to do something with it," said Erestor. "'Tis said that he sometimes can talk a few of them into adventures; mostly the young members of one of their greatest clans, the so-called Took-family. Though why he would want to do so is beyond my understanding."

"We can ask him," offered Lindir, which earned him a groan from Erestor.

"Lindir! At least in _some_ things you should listen to your uncle. He has a saying which is very true, and you should follow it: '_Do not meddle with the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger._'"

"Gildor is _not_ my uncle," as always, Lindir felt the need to emphasize that point, "and I have been meddling with the affairs of wizards since… since my birth, almost. I can handle them."

"You can handle _Aiwendil_," Erestor corrected, "for you are practically his son. _Mithrandir_ is another matter entirely."

"That might be. But he likes me nevertheless," pointed out Lindir with adorable self-confidence, and Erestor had to laugh at that.

"_Everyone_ likes you, love, but that means not that you cannot get into trouble. Now, why do you not practice a little more, 'til I wash and get dressed? Then we can go to the kitchen, get some breakfast and speak to Master Lalwen and her people about the guests?"

Lindir agreed with the proposal, and half an hour later they were heading towards the huge, arched kitchen of the Last Homely House. Master Lalwen, the bread-maker and Master Ormain, the head cook, took the news about fourteen additional people to be fed rather calmly. They had had two Ages to grow used to unexpected visitors.

* * *

Erestor then went to prepare the accommodations in one of the guest houses – since the Dwarves were coming with Mithrandir, he decided to put them into the guest wing of the Great House. Lindir parted ways with him after that, to look after his own duties. Midsummer was approaching quickly once again, and it was the young minstrel's responsibility that preparations would be made.

A few of the younger Elves – among them Elladan and Elrohir, who had just returned from the wilderness in this very morrow – were planning to have a merry feast near the western gate of the Valley, with lots of feywine and even more singing under the stars on a small clearing, well-hidden under the beeches and oaks. Elladan promised Erestor that he would greet the guests properly, and so the seneschal, albeit a little reluctantly, agreed to entrust him with this delicate business.

Thus lanterns and wine and plates of freshly-baked seed cake were brought to the feasting place, and Elrohir brought forth his harp and Lindir brought his flute and some of the other Elves brought artfully carved wooden frames in which silver bells of different sizes were hanging in three, six or twelve rows. Playing the bell-frames was considered quite difficult, but when several good players came together, the music sounded like the conversation of hidden birds over a waterfall – it was simply enchanting.

Elrond had been relieved to see his sons caring for anything else than Orc-hunting for a change, so he had no objections. Elladan could handle strangers rather well (in fact, often better than his own people), so the Master of Imladris could be reasonably certain that custom would be respected. Besides, Mithrandir always seemed to have a special fondness for Elladan and often spent long hours with him, discussing the fate and the history of the Edain. Elrohir, on the other hand, preferred Elven visitors, and of all the Istari, he had the closest ties to Aiwendil.

Despite being twins, his sons were truly different both in nature and in interests. Had not the fate of their mother forged a unique bond of vengeance between them, their lives might have drifted apart hundreds of years ago – and Elrond would have preferred that to this single-minded crusade that had been eating up their lives for the last four hundred years. For this was no life for an Elf, and it had an upsetting likeness to the obsession of the Fëanorians. So far, the only victims of his sons' obsession had been Orcs, and they deserved no mercy, but one day someone else might get hurt.

One could say that it had already happened, thought Elrond glumly. Certainly, the Chieftains of the Dúnedain would have fought the Orcs without the twins too, just as they had always done. Still, it could not be denied that the presence of the immortal Elven warriors made them more reckless, and that both Arador and Arathorn had been slain while with his sons.

Not that the Dúnedain had accused them of endangering their Chieftains. They were accustomed to hardness and sorrow. Nevertheless, Elrond could not help but feel pity for the Lady Gilraen who had got married – and widowed – at such a young age, even for a mortal, and whose life now was over, no matter how long she was about to live still. She was the widow of the Chieftain and custom did not allow her to marry again, even if she would want to.

Elrond sighed and stepped out onto the balcony, looking own the path where the young Elves were walking westwards. He recognized Elladan and Elrohir at once, and Lindir was unmistakable, too, with his pale golden hair and little Estel riding on his back. The child was truly fortunate to have a friend in Lindir – they might have been greatly different in age and stature, but they were kindred spirits nonetheless.

One day – soon, as Elves counted time – Estel will outgrow Lindir, if not in wisdom, then certainly in maturity. One day, that small child will learn what Lindir had never learnt and would never be willing to learn: to wield a weapon and to take a life. Elrond would have preferred that Estel had never had to learn it, either. But he knew it better. To protect one's innocence, another one always had to give up his or her own.

* * *

Lindir and the sons of Elrond were having a merry time indeed, sharing the feywine with their friends generously and feeding little Estel all the seed cakes he wanted.

"He will be sick before supper at this rate," warned Elrohir laughing.

"That is why he will not get any supper," replied Lindir lightly. "Tell me, do the two of you know anything about those guests we are expecting? Aside of Mithrandir, I mean."

"We have met only two of them before, years ago, when we were Orc-hunting in the Blue Mountains," answered Elrohir. "Balin and his brother, Dwalin. We passed by the company at daybreak, though, and listened a little to their grumbling, so we learnt the names of a few of them, before all that of their leader, one Thorin Oakenshield. They seemed not too happy, but I think Mithrandir had them well under control."

"They called the Hobbit Mr. Baggins," Elladan added, smiling, "and properly so, I daresay, for he truly looks like a bag – a small and rather empty one at this time, I may add."

"When are they about to arrive?" asked one of the other Elves.

Elrohir looked up to Anor, now sinking steadily towards the West. "They should be here in any moment… unless Mithrandir got lost. In which case we shall have to ride out again and search for them."

"Mithrandir does not get lost so easily," said Elladan. "They will be here on time."

"Should we not prepare a greeting song for them?" proposed Lindir with a grin. "It does not happen every day that we have _Naugrim_ visiting Imladris. The last time was when Erestor helped them out with their war against the Orcs in the Battle of Nanduhirion."

The proposal was accepted with great enthusiasm. With Elrohir's help – whose poetic skills in the Common Speech were the best from all Elves present – when the last green had almost faded out of the grass upon the open glade above the banks of the Loudwater, the greeting song, too, was finished. It had a very merry melody, like laughter in the trees, and the words were not too respectful, to tell the truth, but the young Elves had great fun singing it. Teasing Dwarves and laughing at them had often been a favourite pastime of elflings and younglings, and save Elrond's sons, most participants of this particular feast _were_ rather young. No elflings anymore, but still young and merry.

Finally, the one who had been sent out to watch the path came running and laughing among the trees.

"They are coming!" she called in excitement. At that, everyone grabbed his or her instrument, and following Lindir's lead they began to sing.

_O! What are you doing,_

_And where are you going?_

_Your ponies need shoeing!_

_The river is flowing!_

_O! tra-la-la-lally_

_here down in the valley!_

_O! What are you seeking,_

_And where are you making?_

_The faggots are reeking,_

_The hammocks are baking!_

_O! tri-lil-lil-lolly,_

_the valley is jolly,_

_ha! Ha!_

So they laughed and sang in the shadow of the trees, while the thirteen Dwarves, the Hobbit and the wizard were descending into the valley with great care.

"Well, well!" commented Elrohir in an amused voice, "Just look at _that,_ will you? A Hobbit from the Shire, riding a pony with a bunch of Dwarves, my dear! Is it not delicious?"

"Most astonishingly wonderful," replied Lindir, only half-jesting, for his eyes never left the Hobbit – the first such creature he had ever seen in all his life. "Do you think they gave him a hard time along the way? Mayhap he would like to rest among us for a while first."

The others laughed and off they went into the rest of the song, as ridiculous as the first part had been.

_O! Where are you going_

_With beards all a-wagging?_

_No knowing, no knowing_

_What brings Mister Baggins_

_And Balin and Dwalin_

_down into the valley_

_in June_

_ha! ha!_

_O! Will you be staying,_

_Or will you be flying?_

_Your ponies are straying!_

_The daylight is dying!_

_To fly would be folly,_

_To stay would be jolly_

_And listen and hark_

_Till the end of the dark_

_to our tune_

_ha! ha!_

At last Elladan remembered his manners, came out from the trees and bowed to Mithrandir, whom he recognized at once, of course. It would have been hard not to, in truth, considering how often the wizard visited Imladris, coming unexpected and leaving the same way, most of the time.

"Welcome to the valley!" he said. Then he turned to the Dwarves and bowed again, particularly to the one with the great, forked white beard and the scarlet hood. "Master Balin, 'tis good to see you again. It has been a long time."

"Nigh twenty years, give or take a few, I would say," the old Dwarf, whose name was obviously Balin, tilted his head to the side, looking up to the tall, willowy Elf. "'Tis good to see you, too, laddie. Are my old eyes misleading me or have you grown even taller and more spidery in these years?"

"Not very likely," laughed Elladan. "But perhaps _you_ have got shorter and wider, Master Dwarf."

"Wider, perhaps," allowed the Dwarf, "but not shorter. Dwarves do not shrink, you know."

They laughed, while the richly clad Dwarf who appeared to be the leader of their band grunted a half-hearted greeting, too. Mithrandir, of course, was already off his horse, mingling with the young Elves whom he had known for centuries, and talking merrily to them.

"You are a little out of your way," said Elladan to Master Balin of the white beard. "That is if you are aiming for the only path across the Loudwater and to the Great House beyond. We will set you right, but you had best get on foot, until you are over the bridge. Even hill ponies would have a hard time to walk on it with a rider upon their backs."

"Thank you," said the leader of the Dwarves gruffly.

You can, of course, stay and sing with us for a while first," offered Elrohir, his eyes bright with mirth, and the other Elves nearly choked on suppressed laugh. "Unless you want to go straight on to the House, that is."

"Supper is preparing over there," Elladan added. "I can smell the wood-fires for the cooking."

Lindir could see the longing on the round face of the Hobbit and guessed rightly that the little creature would have indeed liked to stay for a while, which spoke of a refined taste and _almost_ made up for his choice of travelling company. Ere he could have said aught, though, one of the Dwarves dismounted and tossed back his dark green hood, revealing a shockingly bald head and a thick, forked beard of very dark, almost bluish black colour. His bare forearms would have put a stone giant to shame, and his tattoos gave him a particularly savage look.

"Songs are for after supper," he growled. "Show us the way to the food, you twig!"

Elladan laughed. "I see, Master Dwalin, that your preferences have not changed since we were hunting Orcs together. Come with me, then, and I shall show you the right place to fill your empty bellies."

* * *

Thus on they all went, flanked by the Elves, leading their ponies 'til they were brought to the right path and so at last to the very brink of the River Bruinen. It was flowing fast and noisily – which was the reason why they called it the Loudwater – as mountain-streams do on a summer evening when Anor has been all day on the snow far up above.

The only bridge leading across the river was ancient, hewn of grey, withered stone; it had no parapet and was very narrow indeed – as narrow as a pony could well walk on. The Dwarves held on hesitantly, for they clearly feared the loud waters that were hurrying away in the deep, stony river bed. Showing them that it was safe to cross, Lindir went forth, running over the bridge lightly, with an excited young Estel on his shoulders, and Elrohir followed him at once.

The other Elves had brought down their bright lanterns to the shore and, to everyone's surprise, the Hobbit declared himself ready to give the bridge a try first. He proved remarkably steady-footed, which was understandable with such large feet. They obviously gave him excellent footing, and his bare toes could probably feel it whenever the surface of the stone became a bit uneven. He made it to the other side safely and looked back to the Dwarves, bright-eyed and red-faced with effort and delight.

"Come on!" he called over to them in his light, pleasant voice. "'Tis not as hard as it seems."

The Dwarves seemed more than a little doubtful about _that_, but they had no other choice than to try. Thus they finally began to go across, slowly and carefully, one by one, each leading his pony by the bridle. They paid no heed to the Elves who were singing another merry song, for they had to watch their heavily booted feet upon the wet stone.

Their leader, the venerable-looking (and extremely stuffy) Dwarf called Thorin seemed the most anxious of all. While the younger ones with those pretty yellow beards crossed fairly easily, Thorin was bent almost onto his hands and knees – a situation he clearly found most humiliating, while the Elves found it highly amusing.

"Do not dip your beard in the foam, father of the _Naugrim_!" cried Lindir, near to tears from the sheer merriment of that sight, and Estel, still sitting upon his shoulders, laughed in delight. "'Tis long enough without watering it."

"And mind Bilbo does not eat all the cakes!" called Elrohir, ignoring Thorin's murderous glare; Dwarves took it not too kindly when Elves made fun of their beards. "He is too fat to get through key-holes yet!"

This earned him and alarmed look from the other Dwarves, who, of course, could not know that he had overheard their conversation in that very morn. Thorin especially glared at him in anger and deep mistrust.

"Hush, hush! Good people! And good night!" said Mithrandir, who came last, talking to Elladan. "Valleys have ears and some Elves here over merry tongues," he added, with a pointed glare from under those bushy eyebrows of his at Lindir, who only shrugged and ignored him with practiced ease. "Good night!"

And so at last the thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit came to the Great House, and found its doors flung wide. On the doorstep Erestor stood, welcoming them with in the properly ceremonial manner that was required when greeting such a high-ranking Dwarf as Thorin Oakenshield, and servants came to lead them to their chambers.

Lindir left shortly thereafter to put Estel in and sing him into sleep as it was his wont. When the excited child finally fell asleep, he wished Lady Gilraen a peaceful night and went back to his friends for some more singing and feasting, not suspecting that one of _those_ discussions was waiting for him about ill-mannered jests for making fun of Thorin's beard as soon as he would come home.

~TBC~

**End notes:**

(1) Or 1 Lithe, according the Shire calendar.

(2) Dwarves.


	2. Part 2: Punishment

**Unexpected**

_**by Soledad**_

**Rating:** Strong R, I think.

**Warning: **This is the part that justifies the **Adult** reading, as it contains **slashy and kinky stuff** of the Elven kind, so read it at your own discretion! If that is not your cup of tea, feel free to skip Part 2 and continue on to Part 3 at once. It would in no way influence the understanding of the rest of this story.

**Additional warning:** There will be some purple prose in the second half of this part. It's a very old fic, from a time that I have thankfully outgrown, but changing anything _now_ would have killed the mood, I'm afraid.

You have been warned. So, if you choose to read this part anyway, please spare me the complaints afterwards. It was your decision and yours alone, as the Iron Hill Dwarves would say.

* * *

**Part 02 – Punishment**

After the Dwarves, the small creature who called himself a _h__obbit_ and Mithrandir were safely put up in the guest wing of the Great House and properly cared for, Lindir returned to the chambers he shared with Erestor, singing and laughing softly to himself as he remembered the faces of the clumsy guests as they had crossed the Loudwater. He entered the bedchamber through the balcony, with feathery steps that were almost a dance, hoping for a delightful evening with Erestor, by shared wine and laughs.

However, he found his spouse in a less than amiable mood.

"Shall I never be able to let you deal with strangers alone?" the seneschal of Imladris asked, clearly exasperated. "Did you truly have to make fun of the beards of the _Gonhirrim_? Do you not know that after their craft this is the thing they are most proud of?"

Lindir winced. It seemed that he had managed to be ill-mannered again, and though he never said aught with malicious intent, it changed little on the end result. And it appeared as if Erestor had grown tired of picking up the pieces after him.

"I… I _do_ know that," the young minstrel stuttered, ashamed and a little frightened, too, for rarely got Erestor this angry with him.

Nor had he had reason for it, as Lindir actually _had_ minded his manners and done remarkably well in the recent two _yéni_ or so. How could he ruin all the progress he had made with so much effort in mere moments?

Of course Erestor knew that there always would be relapses. Lindir was a sweet and gentle soul, but his social skills were that of a child's, and just like a child, he simply forgot at times what kind of behaviour was expected of him. His child-like innocence was paired with a complete, rather blunt honesty – he always spoke his mind, regardless of the circumstances, and this often led to embarrassing scenes, for him as well as for Erestor… and at times even for Elrond himself. The people of Imladris had grown to accept his antics, but there always were visitors to consider, not all of them perceptive for playful insults.

"I truly do not know anymore what to do with you," Erestor sighed. "How many times have we had this conversation already?"

"Hundreds of times," whispered Lindir, devastated by the dismay of his spouse. "Dear heart, I am so very sorry… be not angry with me, I beg you! I shall mind my manners, I promise…"

"You _always_ promise!" Erestor threw his arms in the air in frustration. "And I know that you mean it," he added a little softer, "but how long will it last _this_ time?"

Lindir gave no answer, for Erestor was right. No matter how hard he tried, sooner or later he insulted someone without meaning it. He bit his lips to keep his tears from coming and hung his head, so that the pale golden curtain of his hair hid his face.

Erestor took a few deep, calming breaths. He regretted his outburst already, for it came from the fear for Lindir rather than from true anger – and seeing his beloved so frightened, slender arms wrapped tightly around his narrow, shaking frame, nearly broke his heart.

"There are times when I am tempted to do to you what mortal Men do to their insolent children," he murmured in a soft, resigned voice. "To bend you over my knee and give you a sound thrashing with hand across buttocks."

To his surprise, Lindir raised his head and looked at him with a tremulous smile full of willingness and need.

"If that would lessen your anger towards me, then by Elbereth, do it," answered the young minstrel.

Erestor looked back at him in utter shock, for he was only speaking in hapless frustration, of course. Never was it the custom of Elves to punish the flesh of their young for any misdeeds or faults of character, and he would rather die ere he would hurt someone as sweet and innocent as Lindir. And yet, to his bewilderment, his spouse added insistently:

"I mean it, _melme_," he said. "Punish me as you want, just be not angry with me anymore. I cannot bear it."

"Ai, Lindir," the older Elf sighed, "I was speaking in anger. I could never hurt you."

"A sore butt is less hurtful than a broken heart," said Lindir quietly, looking him straight in the eye. "I am willing to take my punishment from your hand, rather than being sent away by Lord Elrond for my ill-mannered ways."

Erestor shook his head in despair. Ever since it had been discovered that Lindir was related to Gildor Inglorion, the young minstrel had been living in fear that one day Elrond would lose patience with him and send him to his uncle in Edhellond. The fact that Gildor had voiced the very same wish several times only added to Lindir's anxiety(1).

Marrying Erestor had eased a little the feeling of rootlessness, yet the fear never wholly ceased in his child-like heart. Like a child, he never fully understood the expectations shown towards him due to his high birth and his status in Elrond's house, and the same lack of understanding caused his social skills to fail at the most inappropriate times. And like a child, he feared the reaction of his elders, always expecting the worse.

In a way Erestor could understand that he would have preferred some very basic – if painful – punishment; one that would mean that the whole issue was set to the rest. Unexpectedly, the seneschal was reminded of that odd Autumn Festival in Edhellond, when Gildor and he had "settled their issues", as the arrogant Lord of the South Haven put it. How… liberating it had been to finally be freed from that old debt, despite the pain inflicted upon him. And though he could never hurt his beloved Lindir in the same manner, mayhap he could do something similar, without causing any true pain.

"Do you truly mean it?" he asked hesitatingly, still not too fond of the idea. Lindir nodded, and Erestor gave a heavy sigh. "All right then. Come here and bend over my knee!"

He sat on the edge of their large, flat bed, and Lindir obeyed with an eagerness that almost made him cry. How could this sweet, exquisite creature still think that he would be able to stay angry with him more than for a few moments? How could Lindir doubt that he would forgive him the small faults that made him even more lovable?

For his part, Lindir approached the bed feeling small tremors in his stomach. Never had anyone raised their hands at him, and despite a little fear he was actually curious how it might feel. Kneeling down, he bent over Erestor's knee, offering his slim, perfectly shaped rear to the punishing hand, wondering what it would feel like – and if it would actually hurt.

He was quite started, however, when Erestor began with hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his leggings and pushing them down all the way 'til his knees.

"What… what are you doing?" he asked in slight panic. Never in his whole life had he felt this exposed and vulnerable.

"This particular punishment is always administered to a bare butt," his spouse explained in a gently amused voice, his fingers ghosting over the soft skin of the perfect globes, then down the gentle valley that parted them, brushing the hidden gate of his most secret gardens for a fleeting moment. Lindir shivered with much more than just fear and, to his embarrassment, he began to harden against Erestor's knee, as this particular touch was usually the introduction to more… delightful activities.

In that very moment the fingers left him, and the strong hand of his spouse came crashing down across his buttocks. Lindir yelped, more in surprise than in pain, for the strike made more sound than it hurt, and rubbed himself involuntarily against the fine cloth of Erestor's leggings. The second slap was a little harder, causing a slight tingling and burning feel in his nether cheeks, but it was strangely pleasant nevertheless.

"More," he murmured, wriggling a little to show his eagerness, as the burn and the sting caused a familiar heat pooling in his belly. "Give me more, _melme_!"

Erestor stared down at the slightly reddened buttocks that bore the mark of his hand in a way they had never borne before, and found the sight disturbingly erotic. After eleven centuries spent in matrimony(2), even in a happy one, much of the original fire and passion had slowly evaporated, turning the bond into more of a spiritual one. Moments of sudden desire, like this one, had become rare – and were cherished, from both sides.

Erestor let his hand glide over Lindir's quivering flesh, soothing the sting of his previous strike, and smiled, knowing that this session, starting out as a punishment to put Lindir's mind at ease, would end in a throe of passion they had not enjoyed for a long time. He smiled and slapped the soft and yet so pleasantly firm cheeks again… and again… and again, still holding back his much greater strength, in fear that he might hurt his spouse.

Yet Lindir seemed to enjoy his "punishment" enormously, if his lustful moans and constant begging for more and harder slaps were any indication. He writhed under Erestor's hand shamelessly, working up himself to crystal hardness, rubbing his needful flesh against Erestor's knee in a manner that was beyond wanton and aroused the older Elf greatly.

"Oh, love," he panted breathlessly, "I have never thought punishment could be this pleasurable. Any more of this, and I shall spend myself in no time. And I would rather have you inside me when I do so…"

Erestor laughed softly. The wonderful bluntness of his spouse was in itself just as arousing as the sight of his now bright red buttocks. He had no objections whatsoever against digging up the secret garden hiding between those perfect moulds once again.

"Well then, my golden colt, prepare yourself to be mounted," he said chuckling, considering that this would be the gentlest way to handle Lindir's abused flesh. He gave the glowing cheeks a final, rather hard slap and nudged Lindir to stand up.

The young minstrel was never slow to get a hint when it could lead to a delightful tumble on their soft bed. In mere moments, he kicked off his boots, stepped out of his leggings fully, and sending his discarded tunic flying across the bedchamber, he crawled onto the bed, his hips in the air, golden head pillowed submissively on his arms.

"Tarry not, _melme_," he said breathlessly, "for I truly cannot hold on much longer."

Erestor only took enough time to throw his robe aside and to free his own aching hardness. A few strokes with the ever-present, honey-scented oil, waiting always on the nightstand, was enough to ease the passage for him, for Lindir was more than willing and ready, and he slid home in one long, languid stroke, admiring the gentle, upswept line of his beloved's narrow back. It was flushed with passion all the way, and Lindir arched under his touch like a cat, trying to take him in deeper than bodily possible.

That wanton response was Erestor's undoing. The slow-burning flame of passion was rekindled in his heart once again, and he gave himself over to the fire in abandon.

* * *

Half a night later – and after the longest, most passionate love-making in which they had indulged for at least a century – Erestor sat among the crumpled sheets, leaning against the piled-up pillows, worn out but content… even though a little ashamed. It was… unbecoming of an Elf who had seen nearly two Ages already to submit to his passions like a mere mortal(3).

Lindir, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed by the events. If aught, he clearly enjoyed the return of spice and fire into their married life. Sitting between Erestor's legs, he leaned against his spouse's chest, nibbling on his earlobe, entwining the fingers of his left hand with Erestor's in a possessive gesture.

"Lindir," groaned Erestor, "stop doing that! Have I not hurt you enough tonight?"

For a mere moment Lindir ceased tormenting his extremely sensitive ear – only to give him a smile that was positively sultry upon those kiss-swollen lips.

"Only in a good way," he replied, gingerly shifting his weight to get even closer to Erestor, without putting more pressure on his sore backside. "Can we do it again?"

Erestor threw a long, graceful leg over that of his spouse and gently rubbed his elegantly arched foot against Lindir's groin.

"You want to make me believe that you are up to it again?"

Lindir laughed. "Nay, not right away. But I am sure that I soon shall do something that will earn me some more punishment."

~TBC~

**End notes:**

(1) The matter of Lindir fearing banishment came up for the first time in "Book Three: Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love" of my Boromir series, where Erestor and Lindir had their first appearance as a married couple.

(2) Erestor and Lindir married in the year 1960, Third Age, after Erestor had recovered from his grave injuries, received in the Battle of Fornost (1957).

(3) Well, at least if you believe "Laws & Customs". I don't really do, but Erestor always finds something to worry about. g


	3. Part 3: Making Friends

**Unexpected**

_**by Soledad**_

**Author's note:** Yes, in the Book both Fíli and Kíli have yellow beards. And this is a bookverse fic. Sorry, movie fans.

* * *

**Part 03 – Making Friends**

In the following fourteen days the Dwarves and the Hobbit were resting and enjoying the hospitality of the Last Homely House. All of them, the ponies as well, grew refreshed and strong again. Their clothes were mended as well as their bruises (thank the Lady Aquiel and her handmaids), not to mention their tempers and their hopes. And while most of them kept to themselves, at least the two youngest Dwarves and Bilbo the Hobbit seemed willing to learn new things and make new friends.

Bilbo appeared to find a kindred spirit in the Lady Aquiel – who, by the way, was the niece of Gildor Inglorion, the Lord of Edhellond – from the first day on, talking with her about gardening and herbal lore as well as about old lays from the Elder Days. Sometimes Lindir joined them and listened to their merry chatter. But the Hobbit was not the one who awoke his curiosity. That were the two youngest Dwarves.

Fíli and Kíli they were named, as he learnt soon enough, and they were barely more than striplings in Dwarven terms, allowed to join the quest only because of their close relation to Thorin. And it seemed that they were every bit as curious as the Hobbit himself, exploring every corner in Elrond's house (with a definitive preference for the kitchens) and even the gardens around it. The Elves tolerated them with benevolence, for they caused no harm and their unsatiable curiosity was very refreshing.

Thus it took them no longer than a few days to finally run into Lindir in the eastern porch, where he was making rather futile attempts to teach Estel playing a small wooden flute, while the child's nursemaid waited in the background with a somewhat pained face.

"Our apologies," said Fíli with a deep bow. "I hope we did not interrupt anything important."

Lindir sighed. "You did not. I fear 'tis hopeless anyway… and I cannot understand why. While he sings rather well for a Man-child, my pupil shows no gift whatsoever in any other kind of music."

He rose from the floor where he had been sitting on his heels and led the child to the nursemaid, asking her to bring him back to his mother. Then he turned back to the unexpected visitors.

"What about you? Do the _Naugrim_ play any instruments?"

A blank look was all the answer he got, so he hurriedly corrected himself.

"I mean Dwarves. Do Dwarves play any instruments?"

"Aye, we do," replied Kíli. "Indeed, making music is one of our favourite pastimes after a hard day's work at the anvil. Both my brother and myself play the fiddle, but alas! we do not have our instrument with us."

"That is unfortunate," said Lindir, a little saddened; he had so hoped that he would hear some Dwarven music and learn something new. "We could have made music together; mayhap Elves and _Naugrim_ are not _that_ different after all. You even have golden hair and beards," he added with a mischievous grin.

Fíli and Kíli grinned back. They understood that the young Elf was jesting; besides, yellow beards were quite rare among the LongBeard Dwarves, and they often were addressed about it, even among their own kin.

"'Tis a rare thing indeed," Kíli agreed, "at least among the LongBeards, the Folk of Durin. But the StoneFoots of the Grey Mountains are known for their golden hair(1)."

"Brother!" cried Fíli in dismay. "You know that we are not allowed to speak of such things to strangers!"

"Oh, but you are not among strangers here," smiled Lindir. "Has the Lord Elrond not opened his own house for you? Nor am I without any knowledge about the _Naugrim_ as you might think. I have been instructed in ancient lore and have studied the works of Pengolodh the Wise – I know about the Making of Dwarves by Aulë – whom you call Mahal – and about the awakening of the Seven Fathers."

"Nevertheless, we are not allowed to discuss these matters outside our own kin," replied Fíli sternly, though the legendary Lindir charm did not leave him untouched.

_No-one_ could withstand Lindir once he set his mind to charm them out of their hiding.

"Then we shall not discuss them," agreed the Elf amiably. "Since you originate from the folk of the Lonely Mountain, you must be all considered LongBeards anyway."

Fíli looked at him with suspicion, but Lindir just gave him a smile like a summer morning and began to polish his wondrous flute with a soft leather cloth. For a few moments both young Dwarves stared in awe at the exquisite piece of Valinórean craftsmanship, their fingers twitching to feel it, to examine it, and Lindir handled them the instrument without another word.

After several long moments of almost delirious studying, Fíli finally gave the flute back to the Elf and decided to return the trust given to them.

"We are considered LongBeards, for our forefathers came from Durin's Folk," he explained. "But many among us also count kinship to other Clans on our mothers' side. Kíli and I are different, for our mother is from Durin's own line, while our father was a StoneFoot warrior. Balin and Dwalin are BlackLocks through their mother; and so are Ori, Nori and Dori. Óin and Glóin have a lot of FireBeard blood in their veins as you can doubtlessly see on their beards. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur are BroadBeams on both sides, but their longfathers have once lived in the great mansions of Khazad-dûm, having fled there after the destruction of the great Dwarf cities in the Blue Mountains at the end of the First Age."

"Khazad-dûm was the great realm of Dwarrowdelf called in our own tongue; the one that your kind calls Moria now," added Kíli, believing that the Elf had no means to know what his brother was speaking about.

"I know," nodded Lindir absent-mindedly, still polishing his flute. "My spouse fought in the battle of Nanduhirion alongside them(2)."

Fíli, who – like all Dwarves – knew the history of his own people by heart, down to the smallest details, gazed at him in utter amazement.

"You are wedded to Erestor the Dwarf-friend?" he asked, stunned.

Of course he knew the name. Only one Elf in the whole of Eriador came to the aid of the Dwarves in their bitter war against the Orcs of Moria, fulfilling an old oath that Celebrimbor had sworn to King Durin, back in the Second Age.

Lindir nodded. "I am indeed."

"B... but… we thought you were male," stammered Kíli, not entirely certain that he should trust this strange Elf.

Dwarves were no strangers to the life-long bond of two males, of course. They hardly had any other choice, females being as rare and precious among them as they were – but _Elves_?

"I am," laughed Lindir, "and while male-to-male marriages are a rare thing among our kind, they are not entirely unheard of. Erestor and I have been married for more than eleven centuries by now… and quite happily, if I may add."

"Just how old _are_ you?" asked Fíli, glaring unbelievingly at the impossibly young and fair face of the Elf.

"Nigh three thousand years," replied Lindir matter-of-factly. "Fairly young for an Elf, actually."

Kíli was still digesting the news thrown at his head in typical Lindir fashion.

"Does it mean that Erestor dwells here, in this very house?" he then asked, hero worship written clearly upon his handsome young face.

Lindir laughed merrily.

"He was the one who welcomed you in the name of Lord Elrond," he said. "But I beg you, do not embarrass him with too much praise. He is a very modest person; you would make him hide during your entire stay here."

"He is a hero in our songs!" protested Kíli. "He is one of the very few Elves ever mentioned in our legends!"

"A song?" Lindir's pears perked up, almost literally. "Can you teach me that song?"

"It is in Khuzdul," said Fíli dismissively. "We do not teach others our tongue."

"Then you should translate it into the Common Speech," replied Lindir, "for I most certainly want to learn it."

"Why?" asked Fíli, clearly bewildered.

Lindir shrugged. "I am a minstrel of the highest order. Learning new songs and lays is what I do all the time. And a song about my own spouse is something I would like to learn more than any other songs."

"The true beauty of it would be lost in the translation," objected Fíli.

"Twould still be better than nothing," replied Lindir stubbornly.

Fíli and Kíli exchanged long looks… then a short, heated discussion in Khuzdul took place between them. Finally Fíli turned back to Lindir.

"We cannot dishonour the song by translating it," he said. "Thus we shall sing it to you in its true form. But you must swear by your honour that you never tell anyone but Erestor of it."

Lindir laid a slender hand upon his breast, right above his heart. "I swear. Now, sing to me."

Fíli still hesitated a little. Then he nodded.

"Well then, listen carefully, for you shall be taught the secret words that no Elf had heard since Celebrimbor the Smith, greatest of all Dwarf-friends save Felagund in the Elder Days."

~TBC~

**End notes:**

(1) This is not a canon fact, of course, but my on invention.

(2) Which, again is my head-canon and nothing else.


	4. Part 4: Dwarf Tales

**Unexpected**

_**by Soledad**_

**Author's**** notes: **This is a direct continuation of Part 03 – I broke the original chapter into smaller parts because otherwise it would have been too long.

Now, there will be some dialogue that is slightly different from how it originally appeared in "The Hobbit" – but back then even the Great Maker knew less about Elrond's household than he did in LOTR. And besides, some of the film dialogue could really pass the canon test.

* * *

**Part 04 – Dwarf Tales**

**[Imladris, on Midsummer's Eve in the year 2941 of the Third Age]**

The thirteen Dwarves (and one hobbit) spent pleasant days in Elrond's house. Lindir grew thoroughly fond of Fíli and Kíli, and found the chance to spend some time with Mr. Baggins, too, who showed a surprisingly strong interest for Elven letters, songs and tales. Thus they often sat together in the young minstrel's chambers, telling stories, studying old books, maps or scrolls, singing and laughing.

Fíli and Kíli often sneaked in through the balcony to listen to them. Thorin, who turned out to be their uncle, would certainly not approve, but – as Kíli put it when asked – as long as Thorin did not know about their visits, he could not forbid it, and as long as it was not forbidden, they were not doing anything wrong.

Erestor, who sometimes joined the merry crowd (not too often, for the ill-concealed hero worship of the young Dwarves made him a little uncomfortable) shook his head when he heard the somewhat forced logic of Kíli's arguments. But he did not have the heart to point out the flaw of his thinking. The young Dwarves were so curious, so eager to learn about the once great realm of their ancestors, so remarkably open-minded for Dwarves (more so considering the fact that they were the nephews of the stuffy Thorin), that he began to enjoy their company.

And Estel had great fun with people who – for a change – were not twice his size. More so as they knew exciting new games (the Hobbit, who introduced him to conkers, ropies and the time-honoured riddles of his people) or heroic tales, which they told with great relish, doing the different voices of the respective heroes to his great delight (Fíli and Kíli).

For the good food and good company loosened the tongues of the young Dwarves (not to mention the occasional presence of Erestor, their personal hero), so they began to tell Lindir and Bilbo things about their people and customs – things that were _not_ meant to be told other people. But they considered Erestor a Dwarf-friend – indeed, the first one since the days of Celebrimbor – and meant that he had the right to know more about Durin's Folk.

And thus, after many other tales, one day they told the long tale of their forefathers' wanderings from Moria to Erebor, then from Erebor to the Grey Mountains, then back to Erebor again, and finally the last flight to the Blue Mountains when the Dragon came.

"As you certainly know, each of the Seven Fathers made a great mansion under the mountains of Middle-earth, after their long sleep, when their stone chambers had been broken open and thy arose and were filled with awe upon the sight of the world," began Fíli, obviously the one better suited to storytelling. "Our songs only remember four of those ancient places, though: Govedar, the great city of the StoneFoot Clans in the Grey Mountains; Tumunzahar of the FireBeards that your people know as Nogrod; Gabilgathol of the BroadBeams, called Belegost in the Elven Tongue… and, of course, Khazad-dûm, the oldest and greatest of all."

"There Durin the Deathless, the eldest of the Seven Fathers awoke alone and came to the great vale of Azanulbizar, on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains," added Kíli. "There he looked into the lake of Kheled-zâram, the Mirrormere, and saw – even though it was daytime – a crown of seven stars reflected around his head. There he made his dwelling, in the caves about Kheled-zâram. Many Dwarves then came and laboured there, turning the rough-hewn caves into carven halls and passages, roads and tunnels, mines and pits."

"And even more arrived after the end of the First Age, when the ancient cities of Tumunzahar and Gabilgathol were ruined at the breaking of Thangorodrim," Fíli took back the thread of the tale. "Those people brought much lore and craft with them, all of which only increased the power and wealth of Khazad-dûm. The power of our kings endured throughout the Accursed Years(1) when the Dark Lord of Mordor rose in might again, and though Eregion was destroyed," here the young Dwarf shot an apologetic glance at Erestor, "Durin's gates were shut, the Enemy could not conquer the Dwarrowdelf from without. The halls of Khazad-dûm were too deep and strong; our warriors were numerous and had the strongest and best-made weapons in all Middle-earth. Thus the wealth of the realm remained unravished, even after our people had begun to dwindle."

Fíli paused and took a good swig from his ale – ever since Men had began visiting Imladris, there had been a few barrels kept in Elrond's cellars for visitors who preferred it to wine, even though the Elves could not understand how someone could drink that disgusting brew. The young Dwarf wiped his mouth, sighed contently and turned his attention back to his tale.

"Thus Khazad-dûm held out 'til the middle of our Age, when Durin was again King in Khazad-dûm, being the sixth of that name," he continued. "After centuries of watchful peace, a shadow had again begun to grow in the world. Evil things were stirring in the south of the Greenwood, 'tis said, and the cursed Orcs were multiplying and growing in strength. Our people took no notice of this at first; they delved deeper and deeper at that time, seeking beneath Barazinbar for _mithril_ – for true-silver was becoming harder to win with each passing year. Too deep they delved, it seems; for they roused from sleep a thing of terror for which we have no name, other than Durin's Bane, as Durin was slain by it, and the year after Náin, his son; and then the glory of our greatest city passed and its people were destroyed or fled away."

"This event is known among us," said Erestor quietly. "The very same evil frightened the Elves of the Golden Wood so much that they Sailed from the haven of Edhellond in great numbers – they say that Lothlórien shall never be the same again. Yet it seems that the evil under Moria was destroyed, too, for we never heard about it anymore. But I interrupted you – forgive me. Tell us about the further fate of your people."

"Many of those who escaped made their way into the North, for they did not want to return to the scattered remains of the once great Dwarf-country in the Blue Mountains," continued Fíli. "Thráin, Náin's son, finally came to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, and there he and his followers began new works, carving out a new city-fortress within the Mountain itself. A city, the beauty of which soon became legend among our people. Its wealth lay in the earth; in the precious gems hewn from rock and in great seams of gold, running like slivers through stone. The skills of Erebor's artisans surpassed even those of other Dwarves. They fashioned objects of great beauty out of the precious stones they harvested from the living rock. But all that appeared like nothing on the day they found the great jewel, the Arkenstone, Heart of the Mountain," he added with almost religious reverie."

"Thráin named it _The King's Jewel_," Kíli took over again. "He took it as a sign; a sign that his right to rule was given by Mahal himself – for who else could have planted such a marvel so deep within the living stone? And King under the Mountain Thráin became, the first by that name, and he ruled his people well."

"However, his son, Thorin, removed the kingdom from Erebor and went into the far North to the Grey Mountains, to build himself a new realm," said Fíli. "For many of Durin's folk were now gathering there, populating the ruined halls of the StoneFoots that had stood empty for many hundred years(2). These mountains were rich and after the ruin of Govedar those still living there in scattered settlements did not have the means to fully explore them."

"That seems reasonable," commented Lindir. Fíli nodded.

"It would have been," he agreed, "if not for the presence of dragons. For there were dragons in the desolation beyond, in the great wastelands called the Withered Heath. In the long years the world had forgotten about them, thus they became strong again, in numbers and wickedness; and they made war on our forefathers and plundered the renewed realm. The Dwarves fought them, of course; we are not a people that would give up their works easily. But in the end they could not prevail and Dáin, their King, together with Frór, his second son, was slain at the doors of his own hall by a great cold-drake."

"What kind of creature is a cold-drake?" asked Lindir.

His head began to hurt from all those Dwarf-names that said him nothing, and he could see that Erestor, too, started getting confused, but his curiosity was still strong. Estel, snuggled up to his side, listened to Fíli with his mouth open.

"Cold-drakes were the most common of the Worms brought forth from Angband by the Great Enemy," explained the Dwarf. They were dragons, true, but of a lesser art. Unlike Smaug, they had no power of fire – hence their name – or flight but they had great strength of tooth and claw and a mighty armour of iron scales. While most of the fire-drakes perished during the Great Battle of the War of Wrath, the cold-drakes apparently slept through the Second Age. However, after many of them arose again in the North, they wantonly stalked and slaughtered everyone they saw as a foe, be it Dwarf or Man. One by One, the Dwarf-lords fell to them; and thus those who remained fled from the Grey Mountains, leaving behind most reluctantly all their gold as the dragons' prize."

"How terrible," said Lindir, his wide, sea-hued eyes full of terror. "What did your people after losing everything for the second time?"

"They sought different ways to escape," replied Fíli. "Grór, Dáin's son moved with a great number of his followers to the Iron Hills, where our people still have a strong and striving kingdom; indeed, the strongest one currently in existence. But Thrór, Dáin's heir, returned to Erebor with his uncle Borin and the remainder of our people. They brought back the Arkenstone with them and placed it in the Great Hall, right above the King's throne, where it remained for the rest of the existence of the realm."

"Thrór and his people prospered in Erebor," added Kíli. "The Kingdom Under the Mountain became rich again, and they had the friendship of the Men of Dale that dwelt near and also those of Laketown, who travelled with their merchant fleet far to the South, taking our merchants with them – for a price. There was also great traffic of ore, weapons and armour between them and our kin in the Iron Hills. Thanks to this friendship, the Northmen between the River Running and the Redwater became strong and they drove back the raiding bands from Rhûn; and our people, too, lived in plenty. There was much feasting and song in the Halls of Erebor… until the Dragon came."

"I know the rest of the tale," said Erestor quietly, "and if you do not mind, I would rather not hear about the War of the Dwarves and Orcs right now. It wakes unpleasant memories, and I would hate to spoil this peaceful evening."

Fíli nodded his agreement respectfully, but Kíli was not so easy to persuade.

"I wish you could hear the whole tale told properly," the younger Dwarf said with dreamy eyes, "when the songs are all sung in Khuzdul, the storytellers are dressed in rich and heavy garments, wearing masks of gold and silver and other precious metals, the fights are showed in a form of slow dance and dozens of instruments make the music to the performance. The huge, arched caverns of the Halls of Song are filled with many-coloured lights, coming from crystal lamps, and the sounds of song and music are echoing beautifully from the shadowy heights of the ceiling…(3)"

Lindir listened intently, his gift of imagination forming the first images before his inner eye already; and the desire to witness such a strange and intriguing form of art awakening in his heart.

"I would _love_ to see your art one day," he said a little sadly when Kíli trailed off. "But I fear not even I shall live long enough to see the day when an Elf is allowed to attend to such a performance."

"I fear you are right," Kíli agreed. "Not that I would dare to disagree with my esteemed uncle, may his beard grow ever longer; but Mother says he was ever a Dwarf with a stiff neck. And exiled or not, he still is the rightful King of Durin's Folk, and each of us would die for him should the need arise."

Lindir nodded, understanding that while his new friends were willing to bend the rules a little (as long as Thorin did not learn about it); they would never openly rebel against them. That was not in their nature, Dwarves being great keepers of tradition. He only hoped that dying for Thorin's pride and hunger for gold would _not_ be necessary.

~TBC~

* * *

**Endnotes:**

(1) "One of the many names given to the period of Sauron's first dominion over Middle-earth. Other names – the Black Years, the Dark Years, the Days of Flight – betray equally bitter memories of the latter part of the Second Age, when Númenor grew in power while Men and Elves of Middle-earth groaned under Sauron's tyranny or fought desperate wars for their very existence." (Source: The Complete Tolkien Companion by J. E. A. Tyler) Fíli's tale, of course, is based on _Appendix A Part III – Durin's Folk_ in LOTR, with quite a few additions and modifications.

(2) The great Dwarf cities in the Ered Mithrin are extrapolation, based on the canon fact that Scatha the Worm (slain by Fram, son of Frumgar of the Éothéod) must have found somewhere that hoard he was protecting. And dragon-hoards usually came from pillaged Dwarf cities.

(3) It was suggested once on the Axe&Bow list that Dwarves might have a performance akin to grand opera. Not a canon fact, for sure, but I can imagine them to enjoy it. If you want to see what it might have looked like, read my story "A Dwarven Yuletide".


	5. Part 5: Discoveries

**Unexpected**

_**by Soledad**_

**Author's notes: **This is a direct continuation of Part 03 – I broke the original chapter into smaller parts because otherwise it would have been too long.

The song Fíli and Kíli sing for their Elven friend is the first verse of the one sung during the film credits at the end, of course.

* * *

**Part 05 – Discoveries**

So the time to Midsummer Eve came, and Thorin and his company were to go on again with the early sun on midsummer morning. But ere they would set off, Elrond held council with them in his own study one last time. Glorfindel, Erestor and Lindir were allowed to join, and Elladan and Elrohir were present as well, eager to hear about the final plan.

After they had discussed all possible paths over the Misty Mountains and through Mirkwood in great detail – a discussion in which Elrond's sons proved to be a great help, since they had been roaming the Wildlands for over four hundred years – Elrond finally got the chance to take a close look at the swords that had been found in the trolls' lair. He studied them in quite some length, and the longer he did so, the more his eyes filled with wonder.

"These are not troll-made," he finally said. "These are old swords, very old; swords of the High Elves of the West, my kin. They were made in Gondolin, for the Wars of Beleriand."

Hearing this, Glorfindel stiffened involuntarily, painful memories awakening in his heart.

"They must have come from a dragon's hoard or Orc-plunder, then," he said, almost tonelessly, "for dragons and Orcs and other foul monsters destroyed that fair city, many Ages ago. Do the swords have a name?"

Elrond studied the graceful runes on the blade closely; his smooth brow creasing in concentration, for the script was ancient, even for a lore-master like himself.

"They do indeed," he cast a quick lock at Glorfindel, unease clouding his face. "This one the runs name Orcrist, the Orc-cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a famous blade."

"I remember," replied Glorfindel slowly, the image of a great and lordly Elf taking form before his inner eye; a tall, dark-haired Elf, clad all in silver, with a spike of steel, pointed with a diamond, set upon his shining helm, and with a shield that shimmered as if it were bedewed with drops of rain, that were indeed a thousand studs of crystal; and he deemed to hear the faint, lovely music of a fountain. "I also remember the one who once wielded it."

The Dwarves looked at him strangely, yet he said no more, and they dared not to ask, seeing the deep sorrow in his eyes. Lindir, however, made a mental note to ask him later, hoping that Glorfindel will tell him the whole story, as always.

Elrond gave his old friend and chief warlord an understanding look and turned his attention to the other sword – and paled slightly.

"This," he said, handing it to Mithrandir, "was Glamdring, the Foe-hammer, that the King of Gondolin once wore. Keep them and wield them with honour!"

"If any-one had the right to hold Turgon's sword in his keeping, it would be you, my Lord," answered Mithrandir, the only one aside the Elves to know that Elrond descended from the very King in question.

But the Master of Imladris shook his head.

"My friend, I foreswore all weapons after the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, as you know. Nor had I even the intention to claim my right as the King's heir. Keep them; you might find them useful."

Thorin, turning Orcrist in his hands, shot Glorfindel an uncertain look. He could see that the sword had great importance for the gold-haired Elf-lord whose whole posture revealed the seasoned warrior.

"Whence the Trolls got them, I wonder," he murmured.

"I could not tell," answered Elrond gravely. "Who knows how many times have they changed owners during the last two Ages? 'Tis also possible, though, that they have lain forgotten in some hole in the mountains of old, all the time, and your Trolls stumbled upon them by accident."

"I have heard that there are still forgotten treasures to be found in the deserted Orc-dens of the Misty Mountains, ever since the War of the Dwarves and Orcs," added Erestor quietly. "At least that is what the Rangers say, and they patrol the Mountains often enough to know. However, they are wise enough _not_ to touch such treasures; one can never know what kind of curse has been put over them to keep them safe from other plunderers. Orcs are known for their use of foul magic, so my advice would be: handle carefully whatever came from a Troll hoard."

"No need to do so with these swords, though," said Glorfindel. "The smiths of the House of the Hammer of Wrath have worked their mighty spells right into the blades themselves; no evil thing can touch them or use them."

Elrond nodded in agreement.

"Such was the might of the craftspeople of Gondolin," he said. "No-one short the Elven-smiths of Eregion has ever come close to their art again."

Thorin heard him out respectfully. Thank to Fíli and Kíli, every Dwarf knew by now who Erestor was, and though they respected his modesty, he stood in higher esteem in their eyes than any other Elf had stood since the days of Celebrimbor.

"I shall keep this sword in honour," said Thorin, after pondering a while, and looked at Glorfindel again, who nodded his agreement wordlessly. "May it soon cleave Orcs once again!"

"A wish that is likely to be granted soon enough in the mountains," commented Elrond dryly, and his sons nodded with identical, grim faces. "But show me now that map of yours. Lindir, come here and take a look!"

Lindir obeyed eagerly, old letters and maps being a great interest of his. He stood behind his gold-bearded friends, peering over their heads at the map. The parchment was rather battered, and it showed the part of Rhovanion east of Mirkwood, near the Lonely Mountain, that Men considered part of what they called Wilderland. On the lower part of the map were five equally long rows of runes – the so-called Angerthas Moria, Lindir realized – and even the dragon was marked in red above the Mountain.

_Not that the Worm otherwise would not be easy enough to find_, the young minstrel thought with a grin.

But his mood darkened considerably when he detected the mark where the town of Dale used to be. As a very young Elfling, he had visited that merry town once, hiding under Aiwendil's heavy cloak, for he was frightened of Men. Yet he still remembered well the beautiful sound of the bronze and silver bells that were hanging in rows from a high and narrow steel frame in the middle of the marketplace and two men handled them with long ropes, making the merriest music he had heard in his then-short life. He remembered the loud banter and roaring laughter on the town market, and the singing of the women who were washing the laundry on the lakeside, wielding the heavy wooden beatle with surprising ease and beating the dirty clothes on the flat stones in a steady rhythm that matched the rhythm of their own singing and the music of the bells. Dale had been a fine place as Mannish towns go, its people had not deserved their cruel fate.

The young minstrel pushed through between Fíli and Kíli to take a closer look in the surprisingly bright light of the broad silver crescent moon. It seemed to him as if he saw something vaguely along the runes written on the left side of the parchment.

"What is this?" he asked, pointing out the barely visible signs. Elrond held up the map, so that the moonlight could shine through it.

"_Cirith Ithil_!" he murmured in surprise, and everyone save Erestor and Gandalf gave him blank looks.

"Cirith… _what_?" one of the Dwarves, with a thick russet mane like that of a lion and an elaborately braided red beard, whom the others called Óin, asked with a frown.

"There are moon-letters here, beside the plain runes which say 'five feet high the door and three may walk abreast'," explained Elrond.

The Hobbit perked up his pointed ears – almost literally.

"What are moon-letters?" he asked full of excitement.

Lindir smiled; the little creature certainly was a scholarly one.

But so was apparently the Dwarf Óin, too, for he readily answered the Hobbit ere Lord Elrond could have done so.

"Moon-letters are a specific kind of _cirth_ runes, as the Elves like to call them, but you cannot see them," he explained, "not when you look straight at them. They can only be seen when the moon shines behind them."

"And what is more, with the more cunning sort it must be a moon of the same shape and season as the day when they were written," supplied another Dwarf, this one large and with bluish-black hair and beard; Ori was his name, Lindir remembered.

Apparently, the _Naugrim_ did have their scholars, too. Who would have expected _that_?

"The Dwarves of Moria invented them," Erestor added, remembering Master Narvi showing him how to draw these very special letters, in his father's workshop, when he had barely been old enough to lift a hammer, "and draw them with silver pens, as Masters Ori and Óin could doubtlessly tell you. These here must have been written on a Midsummer's Eve in a crescent moon, a long time ago."

"What do they say?" asked Mithrandir and Thorin together, apparently unhappy that they had not detected the letters before.

Lindir shook his head, not understanding their anger. How on Middle-earth should they have found them? There really had not been a chance before, and there would not be another one until a long, long time again. Dwarves certainly were a strange lot – and Istari could be even stranger. But his opinion had not been asked for, and he found it better to remain silent.

"Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks," read Elrond, arching an elegant eyebrow, "and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the key-hole."

"Durin, Durin…" murmured Thorin, memories of a glorious past long gone mirroring in his deep eyes. "He was eldest of the Seven Fathers – first to awaken, last to die. Kingship among the LongBeards, the eldest race of Dwarves, came from Durin the Deathless through father to son in an unbroken line 'til this very day. He was my first ancestor and I am his heir."

The Elves remained in polite silence. Elrond alone had met several Kings of Moria on various occasions as Gil-galad's herald, and even Erestor could say from himself that Durin IV has visited his father's workshop. Not to mention Thráin, Thorin's own father, alongside whom he had fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar. But if Thorin wanted to bask a little in his forefathers' glory, who was he to hinder the Dwarf in that?

"Then what is Durin's Day?" asked Lindir, not being too well-versed in Dwarven lore, but willing to learn new things as always.

And while Thorin explained long-windedly how that particular day was calculated and why they couldn't tell anymore when such a time will come again, Erestor remembered Master Narvi once more – a very old, yea, practically ancient Dwarf, whose back had become bent from high age and the long decades of labour under the earth, but whose shrewd mind had still worked flawlessly and whose dark eyes had still burned like fire under those snowy brows.

He remembered a round face, soft and wrinkled like a dried apple, and a long, white beard, carefully braided and tucked into the old Master's broad belt, and a voice, deep and rough and yet so very gentle. There had not been many elflings in Eregion, but Master Narvi seemed to like them all, not having children of his own, and he found it not unworthy of him to correct the grip of small, inexperienced fingers on the hammer. If Erestor closed his eyes, he still could feel that big, warm, wrinkled and calloused hand on his once-small one, bringing his little fingers in the right position. He still could hear the deep, gentle rumbling of that old voice.

_This way, little Elf – or else you shall hurt yourself. One day you will become a great Jewel-Smith, just like your father… All you have to do is to learn and to work…_

When he remembered these peaceful moments, Erestor was always grateful that Master Narvi had not lived to see Eregion's destruction. There were times when he wished he had not lived to see it, either.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, feather-light, like the wing of a butterfly, chasing his dark thoughts away.

"Let the memories rest in the past, dear heart," murmured Lindir. "No amount of grief can bring you back what you have lost – let it go. Think of what you have gained in all those years."

Erestor smiled, and turning his head, put a kiss on the slender hand still resting on his shoulder.

"If I had not gained aught else but your love, it would be worth the price," he replied, rising. "Let us go down to the Bruinen, for the singing and dancing is about to begin, and I wish to spend this night of joy in your company.'

Lindir was more than willing to do so, thus off they wandered at once. They never reached the river bank that night, though. For on their way down, they passed the guest wing of the Great House, where the Dwarves had been given rooms, and from there they heard singing, the like of which Lindir had only heard once and Erestor had not since the Battle of Nanduhirion.

The Dwarves were singing a song of deep longing, this time in the Common Speech. Their low, rough tones were very different from the silvery Elven voices, but – just like when he had listened to Fíli and Kíli – Lindir could not help being touched by their song.

_Far over the Misty Mountains rise_

_Lead us standing upon the height_

_What was before, we see once more,_

_Is our kingdom in distant light…_

Thus sang the lead voice, deep and haunting, and the other Dwarves hummed the chorus in the background. Both Lindir and Erestor felt unexpected tears swimming in their eyes and released shuddering breaths. Then something stirred nearby, and they looked down into the kind face of Bilbo Baggins.

"Heart-rending, is it not?" asked the Hobbit softly. "'Twas hearing this song that made me leave behind the safety and comfort of my home and run off with them over hill and under hill, forgetting even my handkerchiefs. Which, let me tell you, is a very un-Hobbitlike thing to do."

Erestor smiled. "I shall take your word for that, Master Bilbo. May the Valar protect you, so that you never have to regret your choice."

"I hope so," replied the Hobbit. "An adventure that one has to regret afterwards is not much of an adventure to begin with."

~TBC~


	6. Part 6: Grief & Comfort

**Unexpected**

_**by Soledad**_

**Author's notes:** Lindir's song is quoted from the book, of course, and so are a few notes of dialogue.

If you want to know more about Legolas and his prospective bride, you find the back-story in my still-unfinished tale "Astonishment in Mirkwood". Radagast's friendship to the royal family of Mirkwood has been established in my other story, "Little Bird".

* * *

**Part 06 – Grief & Comfort**

Midsummer morning on the next day proved true its name: it was fair and fresh and beautiful like an Elven dream. There was not a wisp of cloud upon the deep blue sky, and the golden light of Anor was glittering on the many waterfalls of the Valley. The Dwarves left at daybreak, riding away among songs and farewell and good speed. Their hearts were now ready for more adventure, and with knowledge of the road that they had to follow over the Hithaeglir and the land beyond, they felt much better about the possible outcome of their Quest than before.

Fíli and Kíli spoke their farewells to Lindir in private, where their uncle could not see them, enveloping him (and little Estel) in bear hugs that nearly cracked his ribs. Bilbo, however, hugged him before all eyes, promising to return one day and exchange tales and songs with him, and to bring Estel something from the far lands he was about to visit.

Then they were gone, and the people of Imladris did not hear of them for many moons – until Radagast the Brown arrived unexpectedly, shortly before Midwinter Day. Lindir was overjoyed to see him, of course, too glad to notice the deep frown between the wizard's bushy eyebrows. But Erestor noticed it, and guessed at once that Radagast came with dire news. Still he did not want to spoil Lindir's joy, so for the time being he remained quiet.

On Yuletide's Eve, Elrond's household finally gathered in the Hall of Fire to listen to Radagast's news.

"Now listen to me, my friends, for I am the bringer of great tidings, both good and bad," the wizard began. "First of all, let me tell you that the quest of the Dwarves succeeded, and the Dragon is dead – slain by Bard of Esgaroth, a bowman of the blood of Girion, last king of Dale."

There was a silence of awe for a moment, and then Elrond stirred in his seat.

"That is a relief," he said. "Not too often has Mithrandir shared his concerns with me, but I know he was worried about the Dragon. The Necromancer could have used Smaug as a terrible weapon – and sooner or later he would find a way to ensnarl him."

"We have taken care of the Necromancer," replied Radagast. "For the time being, Dol Guldur has been abandoned. But I fear that the peace will not last long."

"Do the _Naugrim_ fare well?" asked Lindir quietly. Not that he would not be concerned about the events in Southern Mirkwood, but for the moment, he was more concerned about the Dwarves.

"More or less," answered the wizard with a sigh. "They had more adventure than they dreamed of – run into Orcs and Wargs, met Beorn, were nearly eaten by the Great Spiders, fell into the Enchanted River and roused the ire of Thranduil so much that he threw them into his deepest dungeons."

"Knowing Thranduil's tempers, that should not take much," commented Elrond dryly. Radagast shrugged.

"Well, they _were_ trespassing… stumbling blindly into the preparations for Prince Legolas' bonding ceremony…" he bit off the word, seeing the saddening eyes of Elrond.

Erestor leaned forward and touched his foster father's arm gently.

"You knew this was inevitable," he said. "Legolas is Thranduil's only remaining son, and Mirkwood is a dangerous place, even for the royal family. He _must_ have an heir, sooner or later."

Elrond nodded. "I know. I cannot and wish not to stand in his way. Have you met the bride, Master Aiwendil? How is she faring? We have not seen her for a very long time."

"She is faring as well as it can be expected, in her situation," answered the wizard. "She might be very young for an Elf, yet she is wise beyond her age, and as strong-willed as she is beautiful. Lord Aghavannagh is not pleased that she agreed to postpone the actual wedding – as long as you dwell on these shores.

Elrond stared at the old man in surprise. "She did that? Why?'

"I believe she did it for Legolas' sake," said Radagast thoughtfully. "She seems to have grown very fond of him; they have become friends in these recent years. They will make a wonderful couple…"

"… when I am not in their way any longer," finished Elrond for him with a rueful sigh. Radagast nodded gravely.

"You said so, my Lord. But time works for you all – you, my Lord, shall sail to the West and will be reunited with your Lady again, and Legolas… he will finally have his own life."

Elrond looked him straight in the eyes. "You never approved."

"Nay," admitted the wizard bluntly. "But I am glad nevertheless that Legolas' love has saved you from fading. Without you, the fight against the Darkness would have been a much harder one. Your wisdom is sorely needed here."

The silence was now longer and more uncomfortable, as the Elves of Imladris all approved of the love between their Lord and the Prince of Mirkwood, even though they knew that it would have to end, eventually. But it _did_ save Elrond from dying of broken heart after Celebrían's departure, and for his family this was the only thing that counted.

Radagast, an old friend of Thranduil's saw the whole thing differently, of course. He would prefer Legolas happily married; mayhap he even hoped to see his children, before his labours in Middle-earth came to an end… if ever.

Lindir was torn between loyalties in this matter. He wished Elrond – and Legolas, whom he had known since he was a mere elfling – happiness with all his heart. However, he loved and respected Thranduil, too, having fond memories of flute lessons with the golden-haired Elvenking, and wished him, too, some happiness after all the trials of a long life filled with losses and sorrow.

Finally Erestor, always the diplomat, cleared his throat and returned to the actual topic of their conversation. "And thus Thorin Oakenshield sits in the high seat of his forefather under the Mountain again?" he asked.

To their surprise, Radagast shook his head sadly.

"Alas, 'tis not so. For he was wounded with many wounds in the last battle that he and his people, allied with the Wood-Elves and the Men of Laketown fought against a large army of Orcs and Wargs, and has gone to the Halls of waiting to sit beside his fathers, until the world is renewed. And with him went Fíli and Kíli, who had fallen defending him with shield and body, for he was their mother's eldest brother. The others remained with Dáin son of Náin, who had come from the Iron Hills to their aid and took up Thorin's abode and became King under the Mountain; for Dáin dealt with his treasure well."

All the Elves were shaken, asking Radagast for more details, but Lindir listened no more. He did not make new friends easily, but he _had_ felt a strange kinship with the two young Dwarves with the golden beards – mayhap the blood of Finrod's House, always friendly with the _Naugrim_, had stirred in him when he befriended them.

Whatever the reason might be, he felt the loss of his new friends keenly, and could not listen to the gory details of battle any longer. He rose abruptly, left the Hall of Fire without asking Elrond's leave, and fled to one of his favourite hiding places, above the highest waterfall.

Sitting down on the seat cut in the living stone, he pulled up his knees to his chest, hugged them tightly and tried to give a name to the burning feeling in his breast.

It was something he never experienced before.

It was deep hatred – towards the Orcs who took his friends from him. It was a very unpleasant feeling.

He felt dirty.

* * *

Radagast stayed in Elrond's house 'til the last moon of _tuilë_(1), supposedly to meet Gandalf who was to arrive in Imladris with Bilbo the Hobbit on the first day of _lótessë_(2). Yet Erestor suspected that Lindir's state of mind was more reason for the wizard to stay, and in truth, he was grateful. For Lindir reacted strangely to the news about the dead of his Dwarven friends – strangely but not differently from how he had reacted to deep shock once already: he turned mute. He spoke not a single word for more than a moon, he did not sing, did not weep. He withdrew completely from everyone, even returning to his old chambers to sleep, and fled when anyone tried to approach him.

Radagast was the only one whose presence he endured, spending long hours of complete silence curled up on the old wizard's side, hiding his face in the heavy folds of the rough brown robe as he had done as a young elfling. And just as back in his childhood, Radagast had endless patience with him, luring him out of hiding step by step, slowly but surely.

Healing came to him slowly and in very small steps indeed. After a moon and a half, Lindir finally returned to the bed he had shared with Erestor for centuries, in desperate need to be loved and comforted – and after a long night of slow and tender loving, he found his tears at last. But it took many more days 'til he was able to speak again, and even then, he still could not speak about his loss.

He was asked to make a song about the heroic Quest of the Dwarves, but he shook his head mutely, leaving the honour to the minstrels of Gildor's folk – the Wandering Company, once again, had come to Imladris for the long winter season, staying 'til the end of springtime, and Orgof and his fellow minstrels were more than willing to take over for him.

Finally, the evening of the first _lótessë_ had come, and with it came Gandalf and Bilbo the Hobbit, tired but content. The younger Elves of the Valley came forth to meet them as soon as they rode down into the lower glades of the wood, and the minstrels sang a merry song that they had made about the perishing of the Dragon.

Then they led the weary travellers across the water to Elrond's house, where a warm welcome and a good mail awaited them. And while Gandalf, Radagast and Elrond discussed the great and important tidings with Erestor, Glorfindel and Gildor, Lindir took Bilbo aside and found the strength to ask him about Fíli and Kíli. And Bilbo gladly told him all the little things that happened during the quest, focussing mostly on the events where the two youngest Dwarves had proved themselves.

When the whole long tale was told, Bilbo finally fell asleep in the corner where they had been sitting, snoring comfortably. Lindir smiled, his heart at ease now that he was done with all the grieving, and gathering the little fellow in his arms, carried him to the guest chamber and put him in.

Then he ran down to the riverbank, his heart now as light as his feet, where a gathering was already taking place to sing and dance in the moonlight. They were only waiting for him, hoping that he would finally sing with them again. And he looked up to the stars and raised his sweet, clear voice above the water to celebrate the memory and the heroic deeds of his friends, small in stature mayhap, but great in heart.

_Sing all ye joyful, now sing all together!_

_The wind's in the tree-top, the wind's in the heather,_

_The stars are in blossom, the moon is in flower,_

_And bright are the windows of Night in her tower…_

One by one, the other Elves joined the song, and old springtime lullaby, 'til the whole valley echoed with the sweet and merry music. There were other songs, too, older and newer ones, and much laughing and dancing took place and bottles of wine were passed around in the breaks to make the merriment even greater.

When they finished singing and dancing and fell onto the grass with laughter, Lindir – who sought a short rest in Erestor's arms – noticed with gentle amusement the sleepy face of Bilbo appearing in the window.

"Well, merry people," grumbled the Hobbit good-naturedly, "what time by the moon is this? Your lullaby would waken a drunken goblin! Yet I thank you."

"And your snores would waken a stone dragon – yet we thank you," Lindir answered, and the others laughed with him. "'Tis drawing towards dawn, and you have slept now since the night's beginning. Tomorrow, mayhap, you will be cured of your weariness."

"A little sleep does a great cure in the house of Elrond," said Bilbo, yawning; "but I will take all the cure I can get. A second good night, fair friends!" With that, he vanished from the window.

"He will sleep 'til late morning," said Erestor with a smile; then he looked at Lindir, and his heart filled with joy, seeing him laughing again. "And what shall _we_ do with the rest of the night, my golden one?"

Lindir gave him a glance that was nothing short sultry. "I think the Hobbit is right. The night is almost over, and I am not so eager to wait for Anor to rise. 'Tis time to go to bed. I am done with grieving."

Erestor took the proffered hand, daring everyone to try and keep them from leaving. Regardless of the recent losses, it was springtime, and he, too, was ready to celebrate.

~The End~

**Endnotes:**

(1) Spring.

(2) May.


End file.
